


Somewhere

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Bottom Zayn, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Sex Games, Sex Toys, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: It's been over two years since Zayn last saw Harry and now he's sitting on his doorstep, hiding in his car with a weird looking cake.This is a mistake.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hoooooooly crap, I haven't written any fic in a long time. A couple of months ago, I asked for suggestions for something purely smutty to try and get back into writing these two idiots and then... I didn't write it. But with everything that's happened lately (shoutout to zarry, the winning team) my zarry heart has been refuelled so I did a lil something and then incorporated in those prompts from way back. So, hey! Maybe I'll start writing more again, who knows?

_This is a mistake._

 

Zayn sighs and tips his head back against the hot leather of the car seat. Everything about this is a mistake, from the boxed cake on the passenger seat that’s melting in the Los Angeles sunshine pouring in through the windows, to the fact that he’s actually _here,_ car at idle outside Harry’s house.

 

He tilts his head to one side and slices through the seal on the box with a blunt fingernail. He’d asked them to do it like the birthday cake in the first Harry Potter film, thinking it’d be a bit of an icebreaker if it was awkward between him and Harry. His Harry, that is—not Harry Potter.

 

_His Harry._

 

Zayn nearly smacks himself. It’s been a long time since he could have called Harry anything like _his_ , if he ever could have, really. 

 

So, here he is with this happy birthday cake even though it’s not Harry’s birthday, and the realisation that if Harry doesn’t get it, it’s just going to look like a really weird, squished, slightly gross cake. He drops the card lid back down and groans.

 

There’s a loud clunk to his right as the smaller of the two metal gates outside Harry’s house starts to open.

 

“Shit!” Zayn yelps, glancing around his cluttered car desperately. He’s not sure what he’s looking for—an escape hatch? A button for the ejector seat? He shrinks down as low as he can, wriggling until he’s half in the cramped space beneath the wheel, his head and shoulders sticking gawkily out onto the seat.

 

Zayn sighs, closes his eyes, and leans his head forward. His forehead makes contact with the horn and it blares, so loud that Zayn nearly dislocates a shoulder with how suddenly he jerks.

 

There’s a gentle knock on the window. 

 

Zayn tentatively looks up from his twisted up position, half on the floor, and his eyes meet Harry’s.

 

Harry looks somewhere between bemused and irritated as he stares at him. He taps the window with a finger.

 

Zayn swallows and extracts himself carefully from the twisted up position he’d found himself in. He presses the button to roll down the window. He takes a breath. _Keep it together._ “Hiya, Harry. Didn’t see you there!” _See? Easy breezy._

 

Harry doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick between Zayn and the box behind him. “Isn’t that a Little Bake Shop box?”

 

Zayn nods. “Yeah.”

 

Harry blinks once, twice. “Do you want to come in?”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been right at the start of it all, when they’d found the Little Bake Shop. Before promises had even been made, let alone broken; back before they’d been anything but Zayn and Harry, two boys thrown together in a crazy turn of events.

 

It was late. As far as anyone knew, they were tucked up in a hotel room on the other side of town, watching a movie and generally Staying Out of Trouble. Zayn had argued that cake was a fairly tame kind of trouble, so it was only a white lie, really.

 

That first night, they sat there in this strange little bakery with its garishly bright decor and conveniently bizarre opening hours, ankles tucked together under the booth, and shared a slice of rainbow cake. And by shared, that is Harry stole all of the blue layer because he wanted to see if it would turn his tongue blue. (It didn’t.) By the time they left, Zayn was threatening to fall asleep on Harry in the cab back to the hotel. (He did). 

 

It became an unspoken tradition between them, every time they were in Los Angeles with the band. Not always so late, and not always in secret, although they never invited anyone else to join them, and they never named the location of their rendezvous point.

 

When Zayn first moved to Los Angeles, the ink still fresh on his lease, he sat for hours in the Little Bake Shop. He stared out of the dirty windows as the light faded on the horizon, pushing chunks of dry sponge cake around his plate with a bent spoon. As he sat and waited there for a man he knew would not come, not even if he knew Zayn was there at that very moment, he tried not to remember how the last time they’d been there together, Zayn had kissed the taste of the buttercream from Harry’s lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry’s house looks much the same as Zayn remembered it. It’s light and open and his dragon plant still looks like it’s a strong gust of wind away from dying. Zayn clutches the cake box to his chest as he shuffles after Harry towards the kitchen. He puts it down on the kitchen island and touches a hand lightly to the top of the box.

 

“Wanted to say congratulations, you know. On the single.” Zayn pushes the box towards him. “It’s incredible, Harry. The song, I mean. Not the box.”

 

Harry’s face breaks into a smile that digs into his cheeks and lights up the corners of his eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot, especially from you.”

 

Zayn flushes a bit and drops his head, so he misses the expression on Harry’s face when he opens the box.

 

“This is so cool!” Harry laughs, loud and unashamed, and dips a finger into the pink icing. “I love it.” 

 

Zayn relaxes, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. He takes his hands out from where he’d stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans. “I—” He starts but whatever he’d planned to say flies clean out of his mind as he watches Harry suck pink icing from his index finger. 

 

“Just as disgustingly sugary as I remember,” Harry sighs happily.

 

“Yeah.” Zayn licks his lips and then clears his throat. “It’s just the same. Maybe even a little worse. Reckon I might have seen a cockroach when I was in there.”

 

Harry pulls a face. “Hopefully not in the store cupboard.”

 

Zayn’s hit smack in the face with the memory: his knees pressed into the grimy linoleum, his nose tucked into Harry’s hipbone, Harry’s cock stretching his lips wide. He forgot how Harry could do that; flip-flop from friendly to flirty and back again before Zayn has a chance to catch up. “Probably filthier things in there than cockroaches.” Zayn manages to sound smooth, although his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth.

 

Harry grins, and bounces on the balls of his feet. “It’s hot out. I’m going to make some drinks. Want one?”

 

It’s not as simple to say it’s as though nothing has changed. There’s a canyon of time and distance between them that never used to exist. There’s a million and one things that lie unsaid, things Zayn has tried time and time again to put onto paper in a hopeless attempt to unlock them from where they are tightly bound up under his ribcage.

 

But, that said, it is easier than Zayn expected it to be to be back in Harry’s space and in his presence. Harry’s not the stranger to him that Zayn feared he might be by now. 

 

“You’ve been doing well,” Harry comments offhand as he cracks fat ice cubes out of a tray into two glasses. Some of the contents slops over the side and Harry wipes at it with the pad of his thumb. “I liked your album a lot.”

 

Zayn’s heart swells with pride in the way that it never quite stops doing when someone compliments him on his music; in a way that it never quite felt for him with the band, no matter how much he was enjoying it. “Thanks, Harry.”

 

“It was very you. Like,” Harry pauses and turns to him, chewing on his lower lip in thought. “I could feel you in it. I could feel you in the lyrics and the cadences and the melodies. Does that make sense?”

 

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes. He rests his weight against the kitchen island. “Yeah, that makes sense. I felt the same when I heard your song. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine you there beside me.” Zayn bites his lip. It’s more honest than he’d intended to be.

 

Harry turns away and picks up the glasses. He walks and presses one into Zayn’s hands. “I get it, you know?” He says softly. “I get it now. Why you left.” He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more, and then seems to change his mind. “Let’s go sit outside,” he declares and marches off in the direction of the sliding doors.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know,” Zayn mutters through his teeth. “I’m starting to think that you’re cheating.” He tugs off one grey sock and tosses it to the floor with a grunt. That leaves him down to tight navy boxer briefs and the other sock, complete with a massive hole that his big toe sticks out through. 

 

Harry, shirtless but otherwise still very much clothed, glances over him with a wicked smile. “ _Cheating?”_ He echoes, incredulous. “It’s Snakes and Ladders, Zed. You can’t very well cheat at Snakes and Ladders.”

 

“If anyone could find a way.” Zayn smiles sweetly and takes a slug from his drink. It’s lukewarm now and he grimaces as the cheap rum slides down his throat. One drink became several and as the sun began to set, they’d relocated from the patio to the living room. The air con is doing nothing to cool the beads of sweat on the back of Zayn’s neck, and the longer part of his hair is curling at the ends.

 

Harry hums and cups his chin in his hands. “It’s your turn.”

 

“You’re just trying to get me naked.” Zayn left subtle in the empty glass of drink number four.

 

“Obviously.” Harry nudges the die towards Zayn with the tip of his toe. “Roll.”

 

Zayn picks up the die with a certain degree of reluctance. “Wouldn’t need to go to so much effort,” he comments. He rolls a five. He scans the board and charts his counter’s course before he moves. A grin creeps over his face. He nudges his counter up the next ladder. “Off!”

 

Harry purses his lips and then slowly undo his watch from his wrist.

 

Zayn groans. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He flops back against the wood floor and stares up at the ceiling. The bright light overhead makes him squint. 

 

“You’re a bad loser,” Harry comments. He crawls over Zayn’s body and plops himself down, straddling his hips. 

 

This is familiar. The stale taste of the alcohol on his tongue and Harry on top of him, his eyes a little glassy as he gazes down. Loose strands of hair fall in front of his face, although it is far shorter than it had been the last time they’d sat like this.

 

Zayn reaches up and twists his finger around a curl and gives it a gentle tug. “S’weird,” he murmurs.

 

Harry doesn’t quite pout but it’s a close thing. “You don’t like it?”

 

Zayn shakes his head. “I didn’t say that. It’s just…strange. It makes you look younger but then your face is older.” He moves his hand, brushing the tips of his fingers over the rise of Harry’s cheekbones. The soft plump to his cheeks that Zayn remembers from the early years is long gone. His jaw is sharp and defined beneath his touch as he moves his hand over the smooth skin.

 

Harry hums and rubs a hand over Zayn’s bare torso. “Are you cold?”

 

Zayn hums and shakes his head.

 

Harry leans down and kisses Zayn’s collarbone.

 

Zayn closes his eyes and arches into it. His heart is beating out of rhythm and his stomach’s twisted up in knots. How easy it’s been to fall back into old habits, as though no time has passed, as though nothing has changed. 

 

Harry bites down into his skin.

 

Zayn stifles a whimper. “If you wanted to fuck me on the living room floor, you only had to _ask._ ”

 

Harry digs into Zayn’s skin with his nails and it sends a full-bodied shudder through Zayn.

 

“Stop that,” Zayn mumbles but there’s no heat behind it—the _heat’s_ too busy rushing south to Zayn’s cock.

 

“It’s not often we could do this and not have to worry about one of the lads stumbling in to find us fucking in the middle of the room.” It’s the first time Harry’s directly addressed the history between them.

 

Zayn says nothing. He closes his eyes.

 

Harry grinds his hips down and the rough material of his jeans against Zayn’s bare skin makes him whimper.

 

Zayn’s eyes flicker open. 

 

“Well,” Harry murmurs, his tone clipped. His hands won’t still over Zayn’s chest. “It was a long time ago.” It’s just like Harry to be pissed at him and trying to fuck him all at the same time.

 

“Don’t say it like that.” Zayn runs his hands over the inside of Harry’s thighs and reaches for his belt buckle.

 

Harry smacks his hands away. 

 

Zayn raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as he moves his hands to either side of his head. “It wasn’t just fucking,” he murmurs.

 

“Could have fooled me.”

 

Zayn frowns. “Harry.”

 

Harry sighs, louder this time, and tips his head back. “Forget it.”

 

“No.” If Harry wants to be stubborn, then Zayn’s going to give it back just as good. “Hey. Look at me.”

 

Harry’s chest heaves with his breathing but, finally, he meets Zayn’s gaze.

 

Zayn’s heart jumps. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed—that could _never_ change. The warm, vibrant green of Harry’s eyes. “I missed you,” Zayn whispers.

 

Harry cups Zayn’s face in his hands and kisses him, soft and chaste. It’s over too soon. He sits up. “Zayn, I’m so sorry—”

 

Zayn shushes him and shakes his head. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs. He grabs Harry’s wrist and uses it to drag Harry down to him. “There we go,” he murmurs as he curls his other hand into Harry’s hair and presses their mouths together. Harry’s mouth tastes sugary and fruity and Zayn parts the seam of his lips with a flick of his tongue.

 

Kissing Harry is like nothing else Zayn has ever known. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming and it’s so painfully familiar that Zayn feels a wave of emotion press against his chest so hard that he thinks he might explode with it.

 

Harry’s breathless when they break apart. “I have an idea,” he announces but makes no move from Zayn’s lap as he presses their foreheads together. 

 

“Mm. What’s that, then?” Zayn traces the curve of Harry’s cheekbone and peppers kisses to his full lower lip.

 

Harry’s mouth turns up at the corner. “What if we make this game a little more…interesting?”

 

Zayn makes a displeased noise. “It wasn’t interesting before?” He gestures to his mostly-naked state. “I’m a bit offended here, babe.”

 

“Not as interesting as it would be if we upped the stakes.”

 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “I’ve not got a lot more to take off here.”

 

“Exactly why it’s time to change the rules.” Harry hops up to his feet and stumbles a bit as he moves back to the board. “Instead of taking something off, loser each round gets to choose something he wants to do to—or with—the other.”

 

Zayn really loves Harry’s ideas sometimes. “Deal.” He pauses and thinks. “You mean in a sexy way, right?”

 

Harry barks out a laugh and pushes onto his knees. He grabs Zayn’s face and kisses him smack on the lips. “Yes, love.” The pet name causes a dopey smile to tug at the corners of Zayn’s mouth. “I mean in a sexy way.” 

 

Harry sits down cross-legged on the floor and rolls the die.

 

Zayn pushes himself up onto his elbows and studies Harry for a moment. His eyes tick over his bare chest and he smirks. He sits up and slings an arm over Harry’s shoulder. His fingernails graze over one of Harry’s already peaked nipples and gives it a gentle tug. “You’re getting turned on just thinking about what you want, aren’t you?” He murmurs into Harry’s ear. He tugs at Harry’s earlobe with his teeth and feels Harry shudder beneath him.

 

“Stop distracting me,” Harry protests and pushes at him feebly. Harry pushes his counter along but it hits neither a snake or a ladder.

 

Zayn takes his turn and trots his way up a ladder with smug satisfaction. “ _Off._ ” He tugs at Harry’s jeans. “All of it. Take it off.”

 

Harry doesn’t hesitate to comply this time around. He stands up and struggles his way out of his jeans and tosses them and his boxer briefs onto the floor in a heap in record time.

 

Zayn moves onto his knees and skims his hands up Harry’s bare calves. “You’ve gotten better at that,” he comments with a teasing grin. His hands continue their journey up past Harry’s bony knees and over the smooth, soft skin of his inner thighs. 

 

Harry huffs out a breath. “Said you could do anything you want and all you’re gonna do is suck my dick?” He’s practically hopping from foot to foot and his cock is rapidly filling up against his thigh.

 

“Oh, so, you don’t want me to suck your dick?” Zayn asks, batting his eyelashes up at him innocently. He sits back on his heels. “I mean, I was _actually_ going to suggest that I could suck your dick while you suck mine, but if you’re not interested then— _Harry!_ ”

 

Zayn grunts as his back hits the floor, Harry’s body in a heap on top of his.

 

“No, I mean, yes—I’m interested. Much interested, yes,” Harry babbles, tugging at Zayn’s boxer briefs with a kind of manic urgency that Zayn remembers from when they were seventeen, still learning each other’s bodies and their own, all hormones and stolen moments.

 

“Get off me for a second then, you muppet,” Zayn chastises with a fond grin. He wriggles out of his underwear and kicks them off, along with his last sock. “Do you remember the first time we did this?” He murmurs as Harry straddles his face. His cock is wet and flushed at the tip and Zayn is faring no better.

 

“‘course I do,” Harry replies, his hands cupping Zayn’s thighs. “You nearly poked my eye out.”

 

Zayn chuckles and reaches up to roll Harry’s balls in his hand. He guides the tip of his cock into his mouth and closes his eyes, focusing on the stretch of the head between his lips. It’s been a while since he’s done this—not quite since Harry, but it’s a close thing.

 

Harry drops his hips and guides the length of his cock into Zayn’s mouth, and Zayn tries to remember all the things that Harry likes. It’s like muscle memory: a flick of his tongue over the slit before he tightens his lips around Harry’s shaft. 

 

It’s a good thing for it, too, that his body remembers how to do this without needing his brain—because any brain cells he might have still had functioning check out the moment Harry’s warm mouth slots itself over Zayn’s cock.

 

It’s always messy, like this. Zayn’s hips jerk up off the floor into the tight circle of Harry’s lips, his own mouth slack around Harry’s cock until Harry pinches his thigh and brings him back to what he’s supposed to be doing. Spit dribbles out of the corner of Zayn’s mouth and his thighs are shaking, his balls hanging down heavy between his legs.

 

“Fuck,” Zayn pants, pulling back so Harry’s cock slaps wet against his cheek. “F-fuck, Haz, babe, you gotta stop.”

 

Harry pulls off and flops, a little boneless, onto the floor next to him, their limbs still intertwined. “What’s wrong?” He rasps. His mouth is red and his pupils are blown black.

 

“Gotta stop or I’m gonna come,” Zayn chuckles. He falls back onto the floor and lets out a breath. He reaches down and gives his cock a gentle tug, just to take a little of the pressure off.

 

“Hey,” Harry whines, smacking Zayn’s hand away as he straddles his hips. “Besides, isn’t that idea?” He twists his fingers into Zayn’s hair and kisses him.

 

Zayn can taste himself on Harry’s tongue as he wraps a leg around the back of Harry’s thighs, pulling him closer. Their wet cocks slide together, not quite meeting up. Zayn ruts into the crook of Harry’s thigh, his breath coming out in rough pants against Harry’s mouth.

 

“Want you to fuck me,” Zayn mumbles. “Need you to.”

 

“S’not your turn.” Harry sits up, grinning.

 

Zayn blinks. “Wha–?”

 

Harry reaches for the die and rolls.

 

Zayn whimpers and tugs at Harry’s hips. “Fuck the game. Fuck _me._ ”

 

“Ooh, a ladder!” Harry exclaims.

 

Zayn’s head falls back against the floor with a thump. He’s going to die. He’s going to die here in a puddle of sexual frustration. 

 

“I forgot how melodramatic you get when you’re horny,” Harry says.

 

Zayn hadn’t even realised he was talking out loud.

 

“Stay here,” Harry instructs and scampers off, his bare feet padding over the hardwood floors.

 

Zayn stretches out a little and spreads his thighs. His cock is aching between his legs and he knows he could quite easily fuck into his fist half a dozen times and reach an entirely satisfying climax. But—

 

But, then there’s Harry, and the faith he has in him that at some point he _will_ give in and fuck him. Zayn smiles to himself and settles back against the floor.

 

Harry runs back into the living room and the way his cock bobs between his legs would be comical if Zayn wasn’t just as desperate. He settles over Zayn’s hips and deposits a bottle of lube and a long curved toy by his head. 

 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “What are you planning on doing with that, hmm?” He traces his fingers over the tops of Harry’s thighs. 

 

Harry just grins and squirts some lube over his fingers. He drops the bottle on Zayn’s chest and then reaches back and starts to push a finger into himself.

 

“Fuck, Harry,” Zayn breathes, his jaw slack as he watches Harry start to finger himself open.

 

“Hurry up,” Harry mumbles. “This won’t take me long.”

 

Zayn is in no place to argue. He slicks up his own fingers and shifts so that he can reach behind him. The angle is awkward as hell and his arm is going to start cramping within a few minutes but the little noises Harry’s making on top of him spur him on. His gaze flickers to the toy beside them as he presses a second finger alongside the first. “Is that— Both of us?”

 

Harry nods, panting. His chest is flushed right down to his navel and his cock is blurting precome over the tip. “Haven’t— Haven’t used it yet. But I wanna try.”

 

“Yeah.” Zayn swallows. “Yeah, fuck, okay.” He slides his fingers out of himself and takes a deep breath to steady himself. He slips out from under Harry and grabs a couple of cushions from the sofa. He piles them onto the floor and settles back against them, spreading his thighs wide. 

 

Harry is watching him with an almost predatory look in his eyes as he slicks up the toy. “Yeah?” He asks, his voice suddenly soft. The mood shifts with his tone; the rush of urgency is gone, and now it’s just them and the moment.

 

“Come here,” Zayn murmurs. He kisses Harry on the mouth sweetly, smiling against his mouth. “Yeah.”

 

Harry presses Zayn’s cheeks apart with one hand and nudges the tip of the toy in with the other.

 

Zayn swears, loud in the quiet of the room. “I’m okay, it’s okay. You can keep going,” he assures Harry quickly at his concerned expression. He shifts against the floor, adjusting to the width of the toy as Harry nestles it deep inside him. Harry leans down and kisses the inside of Zayn’s thigh. 

 

“You look fucking incredible,” Harry murmurs and then he’s moving, spreading his thighs over Zayn’s and bearing down onto the other end of the toy.

 

With every inch that Harry takes, it nudges the toy deeper into Zayn’s, teasing at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

 

It’s nothing that either of them have done before and there’s a moment where they just lie there, their hips nearly touching, both full and heady with it.

 

Zayn reaches for Harry’s hand and tangles their fingers together. He waits until he feels Harry squeeze back and then he rocks his hips back.

 

Harry gasps, and Zayn does it again. With every movement one of them takes, the other feels. They set up something close to a rhythm; a give-and-take between them.

 

Zayn’s cock is throbbing heavy against his hip and he’s dangerously close dangerously fast. “Harry, I—”

 

“I know,” Harry gasps. “Me too.”

 

“Want you to— Please, I want—”

 

Harry shushes him gently, and moves with far more grace than Zayn could have mustered at this point. As he pulls the toy out, Zayn cries out, the muscles clenching desperately around nothing.

 

Harry slicks himself up and presses inside without hesitation, and it’s so much better than the toy. It’s the heat of him, inside of Zayn, their hips pressed close together. It’s Harry’s breath in Zayn’s ear as he tucks his face into Zayn’s neck; their hands entwined and pressed above Zayn’s head.

 

Zayn comes with Harry’s hand wrapped around him and Harry doesn’t last much longer. Come drips smears over the backs of Zayn’s thighs as Harry pulls out and Zayn can’t bring himself to care. 

 

Harry curls into Zayn’s chest without having to be asked, nestling into him as their bodies cool, pressed together.

 

Zayn tangles his fingers into Harry’s hair and stroke through the curls, his eyes half-closed, his body sated and heavy.

 

“Zayn?”

 

Zayn hums.

 

“I really am sorry about—”

 

Zayn shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologise to me, love.”

 

Harry leans up and kisses his lips. “I want to.”

 

Zayn cracks one eye open. “I don’t want you to.”

 

Harry huffs. “You always were stubborn.”

 

Zayn smiles and closes his eyes again. “So were you.”

 

Neither of them says anything for a long while. Outside, a soft breeze flits past the window.

 

“Least you could do is offer me a bed, though, Styles. I’m too old to be kipping on the floor anymore.”

 

Harry laughs, propping his chin up on Zayn’s chest. “And who said you could stay the night?”

 

“Charming. Gonna just kick me out onto the street like this, are you? Imagine the headlines: _Zayn Malik, spotted, naked and covered in spunk outside Harry Styles’ house!_ ”

 

Harry sighs, long-sufferingly. “I suppose you can stay, then.” He pauses. “But if you think you’re getting woken up with breakfast in bed, you can stuff it.”

 

Zayn hums. “We can bicker about that one in the morning.”

 

Harry reluctantly stands and reaches for Zayn’s hand to pull him to his feet. He leans down and kisses Zayn’s cheek. “And, by the way? I missed you, too.” He smiles.


End file.
